Bloodlines
by Empathist
Summary: A short story looking at Brendan Brady and Stephen Hay's backgrounds. Previously posted on Live Journal on 2 September 2011.


Your dad's supper was keeping warm in the oven, and your mum was watching the telly, her eyes flicking to the clock on the wall every few minutes, and then every minute, until it was _Brendan, go and find your dad, and tell him if he's not home by nine o'clock he better not bother coming home at all. _And you'd go running, because he could be in any one of half-a-dozen pubs, and what if you couldn't get him home? How would your mum and you survive if he didn't come back?

And sometimes you'd find him, half-pissed and roistering, and he'd haul you in among his crowd of drinking pals, _It's me boy, come to fetch me home. _And he'd make you do your party trick, throwing coins into an empty glass without looking, his hand over your eyes. Or sometimes one of the other men's hands, to make sure you and your dad weren't cheating: because there was money at stake - they'd hand coins to you, and if you got them to land in the glass you'd keep them. You'd keep them if you were quick enough anyhow, or your dad would have them for himself and put them towards another pint.

Or you couldn't find him, and you'd go home and tell your mum so, and she'd send you to bed. Then you'd hear him come home, hours later. There'd be slamming doors, a plate smashed, shouting; your mum giving as good as she got, but crying in the bathroom before she joined your dad in bed.

Then there were the nights he didn't bother your mum but came to you instead, dragged you out of bed, _Come on Brendan, let's see what you're made of._ He used to be a boxer, see, so he knew that sparring made a man of you. Even though you were just a child, and half-dead with sleep, and not quick enough to dodge the punches, and not strong enough to hit back. _What are you, a snivelling little queer? You'll get walked all over if you don't shape up._

Then the new family, the one with love in it. Your stepmum, somehow loving you; the little ones looking up to you. And your dad, more weighed-down now but knowing he was lucky to get a second chance, and loving these new kids of his. And you were fine with that, because at least he loved _them_, and they were safe. And your stepmum gave your dad hell if he knocked you about, so he stopped doing it; only one day, it was just you and him, and he started on you, and you threw a punch that laid him out. You took the power back.

:::::::

You couldn't remember your real dad. Your mum never mentioned him. You had your stepdad's name: Hay.

He was a bastard, Terry Hay. A bastard to you and a bastard to your mum. Your mum wasn't much better: she was a drunk. An alcoholic, if you wanted it to sound better, sound like a proper illness, something she couldn't help. She didn't batter you, not like Terry did; just a backhander across your face now and then if you told her what you thought of her. You deserved that, probably.

At least you knew where you were with Terry. He hated you, full stop. He hated you for already being there when he got with your mum; for diverting her attention away from him when you were little and he was horny for her. Her attention wasn't diverted for long, though, as she worked out that the worst that could happen if she neglected you was, you'd fuck off up the park or down the arcades for hours and hours - but the worst that could happen if she neglected Terry was black eyes, cracked ribs, and whatever it was that made her cry in the night as you buried your head under the pillow in the next room.

Sometimes you hated her, but sometimes you were terrified that she'd have had enough, and do a runner, and leave you on your own with Terry and you'd end up in care.

She knew your stepdad used you as a punchbag, but she didn't stop him, she didn't throw him out; and you knew you must be scum, if not even your mum looked out for you. But still, you put yourself between her and him when he started on her, because you wanted to show that you were a man.

:::::::

You did better with your own kids: you had to. Eileen was the one that told them off, there was no point in her saying _Wait til your father gets home_, because you were a pushover for your two boys, at least when they were little.

Of course, you were away more and more as they got older. You felt guilty about it, specially when they were shy around you when they hadn't seen you for a while. But you never laid a finger on them, and you made sure they had all the toys they could ever want, and they never saw you drunk or fighting with their mother. You were nothing like your dad, and didn't want to be; but there was nothing you could do to stop his voice bleeding into your head. _Be a man._

There were things you'd done that fitted the old man's definition: marrying Eileen; having your children; providing for them. And there were things you'd done that would make him sick: you fucked men, you couldn't help it; it felt like the most natural thing in the world when you were doing it, but you knew it was disgusting, your dad's voice told you so.

:::::::

You'd fucked up bigtime: made your girlfriend's life a living nightmare, just like Terry did to your mum. Used your little girl to scam money off people. But you've changed now, you've learned, you've grown. The girl you hurt is now your best friend; your kids - hers and yours - you love more than life, and no-one will ever hurt them, not you, not anyone.

You love someone else too, someone who's even more fucked-up than you. You used to think you deserved it when he beat you up, but you've had a lot of time to think about it, and you know now it wasn't true. And you've given him chances, so many chances, to make things right, and he's let you down every time.

You ought to move on: the kids are your family now, and Amy, even when she's off with her boyfriend. Maybe you'll find a new fella sometime, but you're not going to rush into anything, because even after everything he's done, Brendan hasn't left room in your heart for anyone else. So what you're doing is, you're giving him one last, last chance.

:::::::

You're going to tell Declan. Have a man to man talk. Tell him, because a boy ought to know who his father is, and because for the first time you really feel that if you fail to do this thing, Stephen won't forgive you, won't cave in and take you back. So you take your son to the park, sit on a bench, get him to sit down too. And you start to tell him. Only, finding the right words is a struggle. and the words have to be right because if you get this wrong you'll lose him.

And then, Declan asks if you hit his mum, and the question throws you, and there's a confusion in your head - what kind of a man would do that to a woman? And if your son thinks you're such a pale imitation of a man that you'd do that, what's he going to think when he knows who you fuck? Who you love? He needs telling, so you put him straight, hearing your dad's words in your head and spewing them out as your own. And now you're going to have to put them into action, be the kind of man who has a woman again, the only proper kind of family.

And you start making plans, quickly, quickly, because if you hesitate long enough to look into yourself, you know that your heart will break.


End file.
